Leave
by sliz225
Summary: Short, angsty oneshot exploring the routine and ritual that the team has built up over the years.


Their trip home is hasty, tucked between this case and the next and the next. Quick, stolen moments in their apartments or condos or houses. Go-bags emptied into a washing machine; fresh, folded clothes shoveled in. A new tube of toothpaste to replace the old; a fresh stick of deodorant. A kiss on the cheek for a spouse, or more likely, cuddling the cat good bye. Shrug on a jacket, zip the bag, lock the door, tip the pet sitter. Leave. An old routine that's easy as breathing. They carry their homes in their go-bags, though sometimes it makes them strain at the seams.

Then the plane. Elegant and private and fancy. They love it and they hate and they couldn't live without it. It's a crucial part of the routine. They absorb the case on the plane, memorizing details, analyzing every fact and figure, bringing the victims to life only to kill them again and again. Hashing out every detail of the case until the victims are dead in every sense of the word. Swill preemptive cups of coffee. The caffeine needs to be flowing through their veins by the time they get there.

Arrival. Luggage slung over shoulders, a van meeting them at the airport. Six team members with six different bags fit easily into the single van. They've done this long enough that everything and everyone has their place. Then, the hotel, or more likely, motel. Always dingy, always cheap. Everyone's jammed into three rooms, six beds, not enough space, but nobody cares. They don't see much of their hotels anyway. A quick ride to the police station. "HimynameisJJwespokeonthephone."

The case. The hardest part. Stare intently for hours at pictures of bodies and guts and blood until they blur before their eyes. Maybe a fresh body turns up; maybe they could have stopped it. Maybe if they pause and think about that they'll go insane. Casually throw around disturbing theories and calmly speculate about the sickest of concepts. Gulp pizza or takeout while analyzing the pattern a spray of blood makes when it hits a child's pink comforter. Other cops stare. They've stopped noticing the looks long ago.

Maybe it gets to somebody. Crying and vomiting is for the local PD, but the profilers show subtler signs. Lash out, snap, hurry from the room. Overreact, panic, act irrational. The symptom doesn't matter; the team will notice no matter what. They're a closely knit group of friends who have almost lived together for seven years. And they have a high degree of training in reading body language, facial cues, gestures, inflection, tone . . . What? You thought you could hide it? Time for advice, comfort, a sympathetic shoulder . . . or maybe just a shot of tequila. Whatever works. Whatever keeps them going.

Confront the UnSub. Find him in time, or don't. Save the hostage, or don't. Talk him down, or don't. There's only so much they can do, or don't. Leave. The local police will clean up. The team swoops in during the darkest hour, the messiest disasters, and do what they can to limit the fallout. They're damage control. Rebuilding is not their job. They wish it were. Return to hotel. What little was unpacked is repacked. Dirty clothes slung into bags; toiletries shoveled back into their cases. Check out. Leave.

Back to the plane. Talk about the case endlessly, or not mention it at all. Blast music or read books or rest. Shut the world out. Talk about nothing or play cards or make wishful plans for free time. Let the world back in. Everyone has their coping mechanisms, and it's off limits to comment. Argue over custody of the couch, bicker over the remaining supply of coffee, pretend to be normal. Land.

Back to the office. No time to stop for breaks. Write reports, justify everything done or left undone. Turn in paperwork, pray that the cut corners won't be enough to get them in trouble this time, and finally they're done.

Their trip home is hasty, tucked between this case and the next and the next. Quick, stolen moments in their apartments or condos or houses. Go-bags emptied into a washing machine; fresh, folded clothes shoveled in. A new tube of toothpaste to replace the old; a fresh stick of deodorant. A kiss on the cheek for a spouse, or more likely, cuddling the cat good bye. Shrug on a jacket, zip the bag, lock the door, tip the pet sitter. An old routine that's easy as breathing.

Leave.


End file.
